


A Furry Little Problem

by Deadlydollies13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Anthea ships it with force, M/M, Monsters, Single Father Greg Lestrade, These two are bad at feelings, They just wont let themselves be happy, Vampire Mycroft, Vampires, Werewolf Greg Lestrade, Werewolves, half-human half-werewolf, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26831767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deadlydollies13/pseuds/Deadlydollies13
Summary: Single dad Greg Lestrade left his werewolf pack of two centuries in order to protect his pup, Abbie, and they have been on the road ever since. After being just the two of them for so long, they had begun to carve out a little corner of London for themselves. But a physical run-in with a vampire known as Mycroft Holmes changes that for the better. Greg must learn to let himself live his life after focusing on his pup for so many years. Abbie must learn that she must do the same. And After over half a millennium basically, alone, Mycroft must come to terms that sometimes company is welcome, even if that company comes as a package deal.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I guess this would be considered a spin-off au from Sherlock Holmes and The Adventures on Abbey Road since I'm using the same OC. Only Abbie is related to Greg in this one. 
> 
> This fic is inspired from a tumble post I read that pointed out that we don't see many female werewolf protagonists, and I wanted to take a crack at it in the spirit of Halloween. I've always imagined if they were monsters, Greg would be a werewolf, Mycroft a vampire, and what better to throw into the mix but a hormonal, very protective teenage werewolf? 
> 
> I will warn everyone now, I do not have a set schedule for updating this fic. Like all of my fics, they get updated as I finish each chapter. This semester is taking a really big toll on my mental health and my free-time, so please be patient. 
> 
> In the meantime, come hang out with me on [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/EmilieCrossan1) @EmilieCrossan1 I post a lot there and I feel that sometimes my twitter makes up for lack of updates.

Mycroft Holmes was getting too old for this. 573 years too old, to be exact. He was too old for most things, but he had expected by this age, he would be somewhere, living his life in solitude.

Instead, he was looking down at some scrawny thing with a rat’s nest of curly brown hair that he had just hit with his car.

To be fair, _it_ hit _his_ car when it ran into the street and then went flying. People had begun to crowd around the poor thing and Mycroft couldn’t _not_ get out and at least make it look like he was concerned, despite the growing scent of blood that threatened to make him snap.

“Are they dead?” someone asked. Nobody could tell if they were a he or a she or otherwise from where it lay in the middle of the street, with that hair covering its face.

_Not dead. Just hurt._

Mycroft knelt down and nudged the figure. “Can you hear me? Are you able to get up?”

It groaned, then moved, then groaned some more. A sigh of relief swept across the crowd of people. Mycroft just tried to remain calm.

“Ow…” it groaned again. _No, not it, she. Definitely a girl, a young girl. Fuck, I just hit a child_ , Mycroft thought. She looked at the car, and then at Mycroft, confused. “Did—“ She sniffled and her eyes went wide, and like nothing had happened, she was back up on her feet and sprinting toward the sidewalk. At least the smell of her blood was gone.

So, that is how Mycroft found himself on the doorstep of the flat of the girl he had hit with his car hours later. Really, he didn’t know why he was there. She was obviously fine— fine enough to sprint away, unusually fast for a girl who had just got thrown back five feet by a moving car. However, his assistant had told him that he should have followed her anyway; made sure she was alright. But he couldn’t shake the memory of the look of fear in her eyes before she bolted. Surely, there was no possible way she could have known. She had been conscious for only ten seconds.

The girl opened the door and no sooner was he met with the door slammed in his face.

“Who was that, Abbie?” A voice— a man’s voice— asked behind the shut door.

“Nothing!” She— Abbie, Mycroft knew now— said.

“Abbie, open the door.” There was some shuffling, and then the sound of the doorknob turning.

Abbie was standing behind the man, eyeing Mycroft as if he would attack them at any moment. The man, however, gave no sign of being afraid of him. Rather, he stood, flashing the most beautiful smile Mycroft had ever seen and the kindest eyes he’d ever seen and the most dazzling silver hair he had—

It was official, Mycroft decided. 573 years on this Earth and the man standing in front of him was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. Furthermore, now that he had looked over him once— maybe twice just for good measure— he saw what the man actually was.

_A werewolf._

_Two werewolves, actually._

“How can I help you?” The silver-haired man asked.

“I actually—“ he glanced at Abbie, who was still hiding behind the man, but her face said _I will hurt you if you attack._

The man followed the other’s line of sight and rolled his eyes. “Abigail, what did you do?” He looked back at Mycroft. “Listen, whatever damage she caused, I’ll pay you back.”

Mycroft blinked. “No. No, it should be me apologizing. I was the one who hit her with my car.”

The man whipped around. “You got hit by a bloody car?!” As if it were her fault.

“I’m fine!” She barked back.

“You— Jesus, what am I going to do with you?”

“It’s just scratches! How’d you _find_ me anyway?” She asked Mycroft.

“I have my ways.” He said, with a smirk. It really wasn’t hard. She had a scent just as much as anyone.

Her eyes narrowed, “Well, you can just stay right there because nobody’s invited you in and you can’t cross the threshold unless—“

Mycroft put one foot forward, past the threshold of the flat, and raised a brow. Abbie gasped.

The man grinned, “Please come in, Mr...?”

“Ah. Holmes. Mycroft Holmes,” he extended his hand.

“Greg Lestrade,” he shook it. “And you’ve met Abbie...”

Abbie still looked like everything she knew was a lie and the whole world was crashing around her.

“Sorry to meet under such unfortunate circumstances, Mr. Lestrade,” Mycroft said.

“Greg, please,” he corrected him with another flash of that smile.

Abbie snapped out of her existential crisis. “I’m still _alive_ , you know. Not like you killed me or anything and you’re having to deliver the bad news,” she said.

“You could have fooled me earlier,” Mycroft said. He looked around the flat. Everything looked out of place; nothing was cohesive. It was a completely open floorplan, save for the single bedroom and a bathroom. Abbie slept on the sofa— her pillow, her blanket, her things scattered about the coffee table amongst takeaway boxes. Greg took the bedroom. They fought over who got which. Both were equally as uncomfortable.

There was a chair across from the sofa that looked like it belonged in a dining room, only the two chairs that were at the table did not match them. The kitchen looked like it was not used much, but treated with care. One of them— Greg, more likely— enjoyed cooking and was always optimistic the kitchen will be properly used, but Mycroft is sure he would find their refrigerator practically empty.

Abbie watched him scan over the room and leapt to start cleaning up the place. Not that she cared what a stupid bloody vampire thought about her and Greg anyway, but she wasn’t going to him start a stupid rumor that werewolves lived in squalor. There was already enough tension between vampires and werewolves. Greg knew that. And now he had one standing in the middle of their flat like he was some old friend stopping by.

Greg gave Mycroft a sympathetic grin when Abbie was busy. “I apologize for her, you must excuse her. I mean, you shouldn’t have to. She’s never met a vampire before and she obviously knows nothing—“

“It is quite alright. I’m used to it.”

“You don’t seem like you’d ever hurt somebody, though... If you did, Abbie probably would have been a lot more hurt. There was definitely blood.”

Mycroft was quite aware. It made him even more aware that he hadn’t actually fed in some time.

Greg, in his lifetime, had come across a few vampires. Some kept to themselves— stayed with their clan and never seemed to bother anyone. There were some, just as any species, that were bad; ones who found sport in hunting humans. Greg tried not to let those few bad ones ruin the reputation for the rest. He wasn’t a stranger to meeting a vampire and then as soon as they discovered he was a werewolf, turned on him. He also tried to not let the centuries-old rivalry between the two species taint his view of them.

And then there was Mycroft. The gorgeous, ginger-haired vampire that was standing in the middle of his pathetic East End flat in the poshest suit Greg had been honored to lay his eyes on in a long while. Mycroft the vampire who knew he and Abbie were werewolves and didn’t seem at all bothered by it. Mycroft the vampire who, the only bad thing Greg knew he did was accidentally hit Abbie with his car, but then came and apologized for it, even though it was Abbie’s fault for running into the middle of the street anyway.

“Well, I really must be going then,” Mycroft said politely. “Lovely to meet you both. Abigail, _do_ be careful when crossing the street.”

“Mycroft, _do_ be careful not to hit little girls with your car,” she crossed her arms.

“Of course,” he nodded.

Greg, who had been way too distracted by him, finally snapped to attention. “Actually, uh— sorry. I—“ he took a breath. “Would you like to get coffee sometime? I mean— sorry, do you drink coffee? We could—“

_Jesus, Greg. Way to sound like an idiot._

Mycroft thought otherwise. _Who am I to reject a man as handsome as him? And when was the last time I went out with someone? Must be half a century. Least I could do after hitting his daughter._ He smiled and pulled out his card from inside his jacket and handed it to Greg. He kept only a few of these certain cards on him; the ones with his personal mobile number. “Text me and we’ll set something up.”

Greg was left gaping at the card even after Mycroft had left. It was made of expensive card stock. Textured. Mycroft Holmes. _What a posh name._ He wondered how old he was.

Beside him, Abbie rolled her eyes. “That was painful to watch.”

Greg blinked. “And you were rude.”

“I was being cautious! You just— just _let_ a vampire into our home!”

“He was completely harmless, Abbie! I think you need to do some _actual_ reading on vampires and not just believe the urban legends kids spread around!”

“But—“

“Abbie, please. I know what I’m doing.” And with that, he went into the kitchen.

-

The rest of the afternoon was spent in silence. Greg made dinner— brinner, actually— while Abbie studied for a calculus exam. By the time Greg was putting one of the many plates stacked with protein on the table, both of them had cooled down.

“Have you decided where you’re going on your date?” Abbie asked.

“It’s not a date,” Greg said as he piled on bacon and eggs and ham on his plate.

“Do you like him?”

“I just met him.”

Abbie chewed on her lip. “You _looked_ like you like him...”

“Abbie—“

“I don’t want you to be lonely, okay? You haven’t dated anyone my entire lifetime, and I know it’s because we were always on the move and you had me to worry about. But now you don’t have to worry about me and you can find someone now and I don’t care if he’s a vampire, I just want you to be happy!” She took a deep breath and sat back in her seat once she had gotten it all out.

“Abbie...” he set his for down. “Do you not think I’m happy?”

“I don’t think you’re living the life you thought you were going to live.”

Greg sighed. “I was well aware of what I was getting myself into. And I’ll have you know, I don’t regret a second of it. But if you insist...”

“You’d just better tell him that if he hurts you, mentally or physically, I will rip his jugular out.” She took a bite out of a piece of bacon rather fiercely to get her point across.

Greg smirked. “I believe you already conveyed that to him today.”

“Good... Next week is your week.”

He nodded. “I’m aware. That’s why I’m bulking up on protein now.”

“But what will that mean for you and him?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see if tomorrow works out,” he shrugged.

“Wait, so you _are_ going on a date tomorrow?”

“I would hardly call it a date, Abbie. We’re going to that coffee shop near your school. Apparently, it’s close to where he works.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I go to school in Westminster. What’s he do? Work for the government?”

“I have no idea, Abbie.”

“I need your laptop.”

“For what?”

“For… research.”

“Abbie, do _not_ go stalking the man!”

“I’m not!” She quickly cleared her plate. “Eat your dinner. You’re going to get the meat sweats anyway. Be sure to shower before your big date.” She teased.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg was nearly bouncing in his office chair by his lunch. Another day of filling out paperwork; signing his name a hundred times. Funny how he wished for action on days when he was at his desk but longed for his comfy chair when he was out all day at crime scenes or chasing criminals.

He and Mycroft had arranged to meet at a cafe that was more or less the midpoint between their places of work, though Greg had no idea what exactly Mycroft did. When 1pm hit, he grabbed his coat and hurried out of his office. “I’ll be back, Sally,” he said to his sergeant as he passed her.

“Where are you in a hurry off to? Abbie okay?” She asked.

That was usually the reason he would be running off so quickly. Abbie needed him to come home immediately. The school called again about Abbie. Always Abbie. “For once, _no_. I’m off to see someone for coffee.”

She smirked. “Wow, boss. A date?”

“Er— actually, he hit Abbie with his car yesterday.”

Sally’s face faltered. “Wait, what?” A million questions ran through her head. _Was Abbie okay? Why wasn’t Greg home with her if she had gotten hit? Why was Greg getting coffee with the man that hit her and not arresting him? Wait— he?_

Before Sally could ask any of these questions, Greg has already dashed off, calling “See ya later, Sal!” over his shoulder.

-

The cafe was quiet for lunchtime— or maybe Mycroft had managed to find them the only corner in the two-story cafe in which they could have some privacy and not have to talk in hushed whispered tones.

“So you don’t eat or drink anything? You sure that I’m not going to bother you?” Greg asked guiltily as he looked down at the tiny table with his coffee and bacon sandwich and Mycroft’s lack of anything.

“I assure you, after over 500 years, I am capable of being around food and drink,” he said. “But I do appreciate the concern. Frankly, I find it somewhat comforting. Usually, I am having to hide the fact that my tea goes untouched or making up an excuse for why I’m choosing not to eat. One can only be on a diet for _so long._ ” His last comment made him huff out a laugh.

“I can imagine. I— Wait, did you say ‘ _over_ 500 years?’ Jesus, how old are you?” Greg asked.

“573. Though, I was turned when I was in my thirties, and so I remain that way.”

“God... 573... I suppose you’ve heard enough ‘you-look-good-for-your-age’ jokes, huh?” Greg bit his lip.

Mycroft felt his mouth go dry in a way that only happened when he was about to feed, and yet, he was anything _but_ hungry. Well, for blood, anyway. If Greg kept biting his lip and smiling at him like that, Mycroft just might devour him in a different way. Remembering that he was still in the middle of a conversation, he stammered out a response. “I— it does get old after the first fifty times, I’m afraid. And what about you? Werewolves are immortal too, to some extent.”

“246. Although, we werewolves aren’t so blessed with keeping our good looks. We sort of age to some extent and then we age very very slowly. Our physical and maturity ages don’t really match up.”

“That’s common in born-werewolves, correct? Unlike turned werewolves, you’re raised in a pack and don’t interact with non-werewolves until later in life.”

“Yeah. Yeah, how’d you know that? I mean, it’s just surprising, seeing as you’re... and I’m...” Greg said.

“It is within my line of work that I am familiar with all species.”

“And that is?” Greg sat back in his chair a bit and took a sip of his coffee.

“Much of it, I cannot go into. However, I _can_ tell you that I deal with protecting and issuing Non-Human Civil Rights.”

These rights, which only recently were granted, gave non-Humans the rights that they had been denied for far too long. First and foremost, they allowed them to slowly integrate into society. More job opportunities were open to them, and these rights protected them, such as being granted time off to, say, turn, without having to worry about losing one's job. More recently, being able to buy and own a home and not just rent. Being able to attend school with humans and also be protected. All things that allowed non-Humans to carry on with their lives as anyone else. That, of course, didn’t mean there still wasn’t prejudice, but lawfully, they were protected.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Greg grinned. “S’posse I have a lot to thank you for.”

Mycroft looked down at his hands and so wished he had a mug to at least make it seem like he wasn’t trying to hide the blush forming on his cheeks. Who knew he could still blush? “I can assure you, I am simply just doing what’s right.”

“Yeah but, not a lot of people think that way. You have no idea how many jobs I’ve been fired from for requesting off a week so that I could turn. Or times I’ve been reprimanded because Abbie turned and was so sick I had to stay home with her. Things have been so much easier for us in the past few years. So, thank you, Mycroft. Even if it wasn’t just you alone, or you were just doing what you were told, thank you.”

Mycroft finally looked up when his heart had calmed down a bit. “May I ask you something?”

“Course,” Greg bit his lip again.

_Good lord, that small expression may be my demise. First things first— something that’s been bothering me since yesterday._

“Werewolves usually live in packs, correct? But you and Abigail live alone...”

“Okay, maybe you knowing so much isn’t such a good thing.” He was smiling, however, and looked down at his watch. “Got a while?”

Now Mycroft’s interest was piqued. “Something tells me this will be quite the tale, so yes, I do.”


	3. Chapter 3

Greg finished off his bacon sandwich and took a deep breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he had actually _talked_ to someone— told his story— and that someone sincerely wanted to hear it. And not in a, “pity me and my pup,” sort of way.

“My pack is in France,” he began. “I was born into it. It’s outside of some little village, and no one really bothered us for a while. We got into a few rough-ups with a vampire clan here and there, or someone’s chickens would get mauled and we’d be blamed for it. But for the most part, humans weren’t afraid of us, per se, but they also didn’t want us on their farms. Understandable, I guess.”

“Sounds lovely, actually. To not be feared, I mean.”

“Hmm, yeah, it was,” the corner of his lip upturned slightly. He tried his best not to reminisce about his pack too much.

“So then why did you leave?” Mycroft asked.

“Abbie was born,” Greg shrugged. “See, Abbie’s not my daughter. She’s technically my niece. She was my sister’s pup. But she was a mistake. No— no, _not_ a mistake, sorry. A... a happy accident. My sister was... attacked. By a human. And so came Abbie.”

“So Abbie is...?”

“Half-human, half-werewolf.”

“I’ve only seen a few cases of cross-species relations. They’ve only recently been made ‘legal.’ I’ve yet to see a child come of it though...”

“Probably because most children don’t survive. At least with werewolves, it’s pretty looked down upon. When Abbie was born and the pack discovered she was a half-human, they were going to kill her. It was her, or my sister, and my sister...” she all but threw the baby to the literal wolves. Greg could remember Abbie screaming her little head off. She had turned for the first time; just a month old. And when the pack saw her— _that hideous thing,_ they called her— they gave his sister a choice: be killed for creating such an abomination, or kill it herself. And she was all-too-willing to kill the pup.

“My sister obviously chose her own life... But I couldn’t just stand by while they killed a baby... So I took Abbie and left the pack and we’ve been on the road ever since.”

Mycroft looked like he was trying to drink in every detail. “And how old is Abbie?”

“She’s 17. Which means that mentally...”

“She’s still in her early teens,” Mycroft finished.

“Right. I mean, she’s smart. Super smart. I always made sure that kid got to go to school and live a somewhat normal life. We went from France to Belgium, to The Netherlands, to Britain. Even if we were living on the streets, I still made sure she went to school, no matter how much she hated me for it,” he huffed out a laugh.

“So why London? I mean, you could have stayed anywhere.”

“London was only supposed to be temporary,” Greg said. “But I got a job with Scotland Yard, and Abbie was able to test into a really good school, and so we’ve been here for the last five years. So what about you?”

Mycroft sighed. “I can assure you, my life is not as interesting as yours, it would seem.”

“Aw, c’mon. Almost 600 years; you’ve got to have _something_!”

“I’ve lived through many wars, many kings and queens, seen empires rise and fall...”

Greg waves the words away. “Yeah, no, I get that. Those are stories for other times, another day.”

_So will there be a next time?_

“But I’m talking about you. Have _you_ fought in any wars?”

Mycroft shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Where were you born?”

“Scotland. I was part of Clan Hume.”

“Okay, now we’re talking,” Greg grinned. “Keep going?”

There was a certain sparkle in Greg’s eyes that Mycroft just couldn’t resist. He was genuinely interested in him. “I... I was bitten when I was 36. I’m afraid I was still too young and naive to fall for...” he looked down at the table, “I shouldn’t have gone with him.”

“Was it painful?”

“Being bitten in the neck? And dying?” He huffed out a laugh. “I... To be completely honest, I don’t remember much of it. I just remember waking up and being extremely tired and weak.”

“Were you part of a vampire clan then?”

He nodded, “In a way, yes. We didn’t live with one another or anything, but at the same time, were extremely close-knit. I continued to live my ‘human’ life. Until, of course, everyone started to age and I didn’t. And I stopped eating and drinking. And suddenly all these sensitivities...”

“Wait, so you _are_ allergic to the sun?”

“No, I just burn very easily. Now, we have sunscreen for that sort of thing, but I’m afraid we were lacking in the fifteenth century.”

“And what brought you here to London, then?” Greg asked.

“I suppose I just... ended up settling here. For the time being, of course.”

“So you have plans to leave, then? Eventually?”

I’ve never had a reason to stay, Mycroft thought. “Suppose things could change.”

At that, Greg couldn’t help but grin a little. “S’pose they could,” he repeated. _I could make that change._

-

Forty-five minutes later, when Greg was back at Scotland Yard and Mycroft was back at his no doubt a top-secret office, the bliss of being on a date with someone in decades had finally worn away.

“Jesus Christ, what am I _doing?_ ” Greg whispered to himself. “He’s a vampire. Not that it matters to me, of course, but what if he doesn’t date other species? And does he even like men? What am I going to tell Abbie? ‘Hey, Pup, you know that posh vampire that hit you with his car and you want to rip his throat out? Yeah, I sorta fancy him now!’ Jesus!”

Mycroft was having his own mental breakdown. “He has a daughter!” He said as he put his head in his hands at his desk.

“ _Who_ has a daughter?” His assistant, Anthea, looked up from her phone at her own desk in the hall outside of his office.

Mycroft groaned. “Not technically his daughter. She’s technically his niece, but it’s the only family they have of each other.”

“Sir, you still haven’t said _who_.”

He rolled his eyes. “You know who, Anthea! Greg! Greg Lestrade! Guardian of the girl I hit with my car yesterday.”

“Oh, right,” she smirked. “How did your coffee date—“

“— wasn’t a date.”

“Yes, it was. How did it go?”

“It was...” he sighed. “Lovely, actually. Lovely to just... sit and talk with someone, someone who sort of understands.”

She was silent for a moment, and then, “It must get really lonely, after all of these years.”

“You have no idea.” And really, she didn’t. Anthea was human, and she was gorgeous, so she would most likely find someone and fall in love and live a full and average-length life. Mycroft, however, hadn’t had a serious relationship since the 1960s.

“Sir, can I speak frankly?”

“Haven’t you already been, Anthea?”

“Right. Don’t stand in the way of your own happiness, okay? You were probably the happiest I’ve seen you in a long time when you walked through those doors, and that was just after one one-hour coffee date with the man. You obviously feel something...”

She was right. He hated it when she was right. It wasn’t as if he was wrong and she was right, but she was good at pointing things out and calling Mycroft out on his own bullshit.

“And plenty of single dads date and their kids like their partners! Nothing wrong with wanting a DILF.”

“Anthea, what is a _DILF?_ ”

“‘Dad I’d Like to Fu—‘“

“Okay, that’s enough! Christ, is there nothing that doesn’t have an acronym nowadays?”

“You’d be surprised. What’s his name again?”

“Gregory Lestrade. And Abigail. Why?”

She didn’t answer; he just heard typing. “Oh, sir! You _have_ to go for it! He’s a D.I.? Oh, could you _imagine_ when he was in uniform?”

 _Actually, yes I could._ “Anthea—“

“Let’s see the kid.” More typing, and then, “She’s adorable! Look at those eyes— and those curls!”

“Anthea, please—“

She came into his office a second later, a mischievous look on her face. “You know, your schedule _is_ free this evening.”

“And your point?”

“This could be an opportunity to offer her an olive branch. You know, after you hit her with your car? Oh, it’s back from the shop, by the way.”

“And how would you suggest I do that? She practically wanted to rip my throat out when I arrived at their flat yesterday and frankly, I think she’s quite able.”

“You could get off by 4pm, which is exactly the time that her school lets out.”

“Anthea, I don’t think—“

“Give me your phone.” It wasn’t so much as a question when she held out her hand.

“Do not make me fire you, Anthea. I quite like you.” Slowly, he unlocked his phone and handed it over.

“Of course not. I’m doing this for your own good.” She grinned.

**_M_ ** _: I hope the rest of your day is going well. I was hoping I might ask to see you again soon? -MH_

“What did you just send?” Mycroft asked.

“Hold on, he’s typing!”

**_G_ ** _: My day is comparably boring to just that one hour. I was actually going to ask you the same. :)_

“Aww, he uses emojis!” She commented.

“Anthea!”

**_M_ ** _: How is tonight? I could cook at yours? I am free to leave work at 4pm and could pick Abigail up from school. -MH_

_I apologize if that seems very forward. But if you and I are to continue this friendship, Gregory, I feel it is important for Abigail to be comfortable with my presence. I still owe it to her after I nearly killed her. -MH_

“That was far too much typing,” he said.

“Wait! He’s typing. He’s a fast typer. That’s a good thing, you know.”

Mycroft just groaned.

**_G_ ** _: Wow. I would like that very much. And I appreciate you thinking of Abbie. You don’t have to cook for us though._

**_M_ ** _: I insist. -MH_

**_G_ ** _: I guess no matter how much I try to fight you, I’ll never win this. Alright then! I get off at 5, which means Abbie will just have to behave for an hour. I’ll text her to let her know you’ll be picking her up. :)_

Anthea grinned as she handed Mycroft his phone back. “You’re welcome.”

“You minx.” Mycroft’s face grew redder as he read through the messages. “I hate it even more that you can manage to sound like me over text message.”

“It’s a skill. Now, I’ve got to go make you up a grocery list. You just get your work done so you can get out of here on time.”


End file.
